Becoming Sherlock Holmes
by Myopiar
Summary: Exactly what the title says, following Sherlock from his childhood until he becomes the world's first Consulting Detective. Rated M for the later years.
1. Northern Exposure

**Northern Exposure**

 _From Matty Holmes' Diary_

Wakkanai, January 12th 1976

Back from hospital at last with my adorable little Billy, who by some mistake of a drunken clerk unable to handle the Latin alphabet appears to go by the name of William Sherlock Scott for now. We'll get that corrected to Sheldon as soon as we're back in England, of course, which may take a while yet and until then Mikey makes the most of it by insisting to call his little brother Sherlock regardless. Oh, the poor boy is so jealous of his baby-brother! Little wonder, for five years he was our sole centre of attention, now he has to share the limelight.

And how darling my little boy is! He's got a headful of dark curls (must be taking after daddy there) which looks very cute, and he's Tertius' spit and image. He's also very lively, but I trust he'll settle now that we're back home.

Wakkanai, April 27th 1976

Winter finally seems to be over, at long last. Told Tertius that we need to find some other place, for I won't stand another winter like this one. I'm at the end of my tether, really. At one point we had ten feet of snow outside!

If at all possible, Billy has become even more demanding. I wouldn't have thought it possible that one child could scream so much. And so loudly! I almost envy Tertius for the time he gets to spend at work.

Between the crying baby and Mikey practising the flute, I don't know where my head is most of the time. No matter what I do, he just won't calm down, he cries and cries and cries. Yesterday, even the woman next door complained. I believe she tried to do so last Wednesday already, but I didn't understand a word she was saying then. This time, she returned with a dictionary and furiously pointed out that she and her husband need to work and cannot be expected to be kept up all night only because our boy keeps on wailing the whole night through. But what can I do?

Wakkanai, May 16th 1976

It pains me to even think it, but I strongly suspect Mikey tried to choke his brother last night. I had just talked to Mrs Watanabe at the door (once more complaining, this time threatening to have us evicted!) and not really noticed that the screams had toned down a little, and when I returned to Billy I found Mikey pressing a cushion onto his face. He didn't even mind me seeing him do it! Declared cool as ice that he just wanted to help because of Mrs. Wantanabe and that the cushion would muffle the noise, and when I told him that he might as well have killed his brother, he just shrugged! Also, he translated some of the things Mrs. Wantanabe had apparently said; I'm torn between motherly pride of him being so fluent in Japanese and shock what kind of words he seems to have picked up, both in English and in Japanese!

That doctor was right after all (not that I ever really doubted it), Mikey is a genius, so I guess I ought not to be surprised by his occasional weirdness. Guess what he wants for his birthday next month! An electron microscope and a book on the Spanish War of Succession! I did not even know there was one! Oh, and he's started talking of wanting to be sent back to England to go to school. At first I thought he was just tired of the long, long winter like me, but apparently he feels we're neglecting him and his education. Fancy that, a not yet five-year-old insisting on his education! That he even knows such words like education, or neglect! And that the Spanish seem to have had a war of succession. Once again, I don't know whether to be proud or appalled. Or guilty. I do neglect him, don't I? Since Billy was born, I did practically nothing else but see after him, and poor Mikey plays the second fiddle. No wonder he tries to murder his brother!

Wakkanai, July 15th 1976

Tertius got an offer to go to Norway and I've already started packing even though we won't be going before the end of September. I can't wait to get away from here and Norway's but a stone's throw away from home. Who'd have figured that I could ever be so desperate to be closer to home? Not me, that's for sure. How excited I've been to move around the globe with Tertius, and it was nice for a while. Iceland, Greenland, Tierra del Fuego, Canada, Mikey was conceived in Antarctica, for heaven's sake, though by now I sometimes wonder whether that wasn't a bad omen, regarding his forbidding coldness. Between one son scarcely acknowledging my existence and the other one demanding every second of my time and attention, I've become tired of all the additional strain of living abroad. Well, Norway will still be abroad, alright, but at least it's in Europe and I'll have a chance to learn the language and can now and again go back to England. I consider that a good start.

Gimsøy, February 1st 1977

Did I really believe Norway was going to be an improvement to Japan? I know, I know, I can never be satisfied. But at least Wakkanai was a proper city and not so far north. I haven't seen the sun in almost 4 months! I wrote the same to Mother and guess what she replied? That being English I ought to be accustomed to such deprivations and that she hasn't seen it in months either. I laughed so hard! As soon as winter's over, she is going to come and visit us, I'm so curious how she will find my little darlings since she last saw them. Or rather say, since she saw Mikey, because she's never seen Sherlock at all, and he is just the prettiest little boy you can imagine.

Thank God for that. If he weren't as cute as he is, I might sometimes want to strangle him. He flatly refused to learn crawling and I was quite worried, thinking that maybe we missed some crucial point during the move to Norway with all the hassle going on then. Mike learnt to crawl when he was about five months old (I strongly suspect so he could better get away from me) and he wouldn't stop expressing his disapproval how 'backward' our little Sherlock was. Well, the joke's on him because Sherlock simply didn't crawl at all but went on to start walking straight away and now he's thirteen months old and even more of a nuisance constantly running away. Mike didn't learn how to walk before he was fifteen months old, and even then it took him a long while before he was as mobile. But that's just Mikey, I guess, because he cannot be bothered to move if it isn't strictly necessary. There's a football team in the village and Tertius was quite keen for him to join, but he wouldn't hear of it. He won't even accompany us talking a walk at the weekends. He also declines learning how to swim or ride a bicycle, and if I hadn't a doctor's chit proving he's a genius I would wonder if he may be a little too stupid for that.

Which brings me back to his schooling. His Norwegian is excellent as far as I can tell and this summer he could start school in the village. Naturally, he thinks it's a waste of his time and keeps on nagging that we ought to send him to school in England as he has decided that the only prep-school worth his while is Dragon School, Oxford. When I joked that it must be due to the name, he gave me the kind of disdainful look that no child of six should ever cast his own mother.

Gimsøy, May 12th 1977

Mummy has arrived yesterday and I am just so happy to have her here! She fell in love with my little Sherlock straightaway, and believe it or not, when she's around, you would hardly recognise him, he's all sweetness and good manners. No fits of temper, no running away, no breaking anything, no crying, no biting, no nothing! And Mikey cannot stand it. He keeps on prodding and teasing the poor kid, claiming he wants to show Mummy how 'he's really like' and making a complete ass of himself. I told him we'll cancel his birthday party if he doesn't behave, which he answered with his usual precociousness, informing me that birthday parties are for children and he couldn't care less. So I informed him in turn that he wouldn't get that microscope he so desperately wants either. This morning he behaved very well, or at least I didn't catch him out, so I reckon I somehow need to get my hands on a microscope within the next fortnight. Damn me and my big mouth!

Gimsøy, January 6th 1978

Sherlock's birthday over and am I on my knees, grateful that it IS over! At last! If the gin wasn't so expensive here, I might just drink myself into a stupor.

My little darling was (predictably) displeased with our presents and expressed himself on the subject with a vocabulary rather astounding for a two-year-old. But nothing is going to astound me anymore. Other than why we ever taught him to speak. What I want to know is, how did we think it'd be a good idea to have another child with Mikey being such a particularly delightful little tyke?

Oh well, it inevitably turned out the disaster I ought to have foreseen. Mike was pouting for not being the centre of everyone's attention and ate the cake before Sherlock had even seen it. I had to stick the candles into a loaf of toast! Next, Sherlock declared that the 500-pieces jigsaw we gave him was 'boring', just like the Dr Seuss book, not to mention the teddy bear which, in his charming words, is 'ridiculous'. HE wanted Mike's microscope and a cockroach farm, he said. At which point Mike once more chimed in, calling his little brother a cockroach, at which point Sherlock threw a tantrum and tried to beat Mikey up, succeeding surprisingly far before Tertius or I could stop him. Did I mention already what delightful a day it really was? And how happy I was when I'd finally managed to put them down to sleep?

Gimsøy, April 11th 1978

Back from merry old England and happy to be back with Tertius. We've never been parted for so long ever since we've got married and I missed him terribly, even if it were only three and a half weeks. By the way: I did not change Sherlock's name. Even if it was a mix-up and the name is ridiculous, it got stuck and everyone calls him so by now, so why change it?

Mummy and Daddy were lovely, I truly enjoyed my time there. Well, mostly. I could comfortably have gone without Rosie coming to visit and see me, because I suspect she didn't really come to see me but parade her oh-so-wonderful life and her oh-so-adorable children. Harold, of course, had no time to accompany them, seeing he is such a HOT SHOT in the city. May I be struck by lightning if I ever make such a fuzz about my family. Yes, Harold is terribly successful and makes tons of money, and yes, Tamara is a pretty, docile girl and Justin is well-behaved and can count to twenty. Twenty! Sherlock is two months younger than he and he can not only count to a thousand but actually calculate. And no, I've not suddenly become an over-competitive mother, but the way Rosie denigrates my boys only because her own children are so ordinary truly rubbed me up the wrong way.

Incidentally, I got Mike off his idea of entering Dragon School, too. I made an appointment, we went there, talked to the headmaster about the curriculum, and being my own little Mikey, he naturally wrinkled his nose and told the poor man to his face that his school was beneath him and that he'd gotten much further already without attending any school at all. I may even have risen a little in his esteem for tutoring him so well, but only a little and I don't believe it'll last.

And talking of tutoring – he's started teaching Sherlock the alphabet, and my, he is a strict teacher! What is even more astounding to me is that Sherlock allows him to bully him like that. Usually, he's quite apt in fighting back when Mike is too overbearing, but not when teaching him something. In that field, Sherlock obeys him completely, he even stays off his dessert voluntarily if he's made some mistake. It's amazing, and a little worrying. On the bright side though, he can write all our names by now and his spelling of 'Mycroft' is better than his pronunciation.

Oh, before I forget – we went to see the Admiral, too, luckily only for two days. Good heavens, if Tertius didn't resemble him so much in looks, I'd bet my last shirt that these two can't be related. If possible, he's become even more abrasive and treated the boys like little soldiers, constantly bellowing at them to stand straight and niggling about every small thing. Mikey idolises him, of course, and let me know that he wants to join the Navy as well (funny aside: hearing this, Sherlock instantly declared he wants to become a pirate, only to get up Mike's nose!). They both fell in love with the house though. Of course they did, it's like a miniature enchanted castle, even I find it weirdly charming. Forbidding like its owner, yes, cold and draughty and impossible to keep clean. But then it's got all these useless turrets and Tudor windows and something like a moat and for two seconds or so, I gloried in being its mistress one day like a fairytale princess. Silly me! In the next second I realised that I'll be spending the rest of my life then wiping dust and trying to clean all those windows and common sense returned at once.

Gimsøy, June 3rd 1978

Midnight sun, and without darkness the boys are impossible to calm down enough to find sleep. They're up and about at all hours and both Tertius and I have begun wearing earplugs at 'night' – that is between 10 p.m. and 6 a.m., because I refuse to call it a 'night' if the sun is high in the sky. Anyway, Sherlock taught himself how to ride a bicycle, I am terribly proud, and even prouder because he managed to goad Mikey so badly that he actually coaxed him into giving it a try as well. Same goes for swimming. He – Sherlock I mean – insisted that I show him and point blank refused to use floaties (this child knows no fear, it's quite alarming!) and he's taken to it like a duck takes to water. Now I'm scared to death that he may want to go swimming while his father and I are asleep, so I impressed upon both him and Mike that I absolutely forbid it and can only pray they for once listen to me.

Gimsøy, June 30th 1978

Dear Lord, Mikey nearly drowned! In spite of my express prohibition he and Sherlock sneaked out of the house to take a swim in the sodding Atlantic, apparently Mike could not endure that his little brother can do something he has no clue of and being him – and no doubt instigated by Sherlock mocking him! – he was too proud to even use floaties. Thank God a pair of teenage lovers was making out on the beach nearby and they heard Sherlock yelling and jumped in to save Mikey!

He's not really injured, mostly shocked, praise the Lord. I'm still out of myself though! What if something had happened to my little boy! Oh, what am I supposed to do about them?!

Gimsøy, July 2nd 1978

I went to call on Mikey's savers to express my utter gratitude, only to find that the poor girl – Anne is her name – is living in utter squalor. Two years ago her mother died and ever since her father appears to have descended into alcoholism and neglected her and her three siblings completely. The house was a total mess, empty schnapps bottles everywhere, mould, dirt and dog turds. The poor, poor kid! She was so embarrassed to have me see it, and her father was snoring on a sofa and never even registered my visit. So I scraped together all my best bits of Norwegian and called the social services, hoping for the best.

Gimsøy, July 17th 1978

That's what you get for trying to be good. Poor little Anne Larsson and her siblings got taken away to Tromsø to live in an orphanage or something and in a fit of rage Mr. Larsson beat their dogs to death. All except one which managed to run away and which we got landed with now.

Sherlock is so enamoured with it, Tertius and I cannot bring ourselves to separate them. He called him Redbeard (don't ask me why, I guess it's another pirate thing), and once again Mike is livid with jealousy. He was never allowed to have a dog, he complained, and when I answered that he never asked for one, he just snapped that this wasn't the point. The point is of course that he's got to share his brother's attention now, and don't we all know how much Mike loathes not to be at the centre of things.

Gimsøy, November 24th 1978

Sherlock's reading has become advanced enough to read his own children's books and I am out of another job so to speak. Truly, I know I ought to be nothing but proud of him and Mike, yet it pains me to see how quickly their dependence on me dwindles. He's not yet three years old, for heaven's sake!

What is worse is that Sherlock emulates Mike in other ways, too. He no longer endures to be cuddled by me since he's got Redbeard. I feel silly to envy a dog, but there you go. I am envious of a dog. Mikey could never bear to be touched or kissed, and now my little Sherlock snubs me as well. He more and more seems to be living in a world of his own, where only Mike and the dog are allowed in, and while I'm merely jealous of Redbeard, I have some severe doubts about Mike. He is my son and I love him to bits, but he has an unhealthy influence over his baby-brother. Tertius thinks I've run mad (he doesn't say that, but I can tell).

Gimsøy, January 3rd 1979

Having second thoughts about giving Sherlock a violin for Christmas. Obviously, Mikey and his flute made it abundantly clear that his brother would get no vote which instrument we'd get him, but both Tertius and I wouldn't have dreamt of the awful ruckus he could coax out of such a beautiful instrument. Tertius got me a pair of professional construction worker's earmuffs and joked that it could be worse – we could have given him a drum kit.

Gimsøy, July 18th 1979

Back from civilisation and none the wiser. The physician was as puzzled as I constantly am, recommended seeing a shrink, or at least I think he did, because frankly, his English was even worse than my poor scraps of Norwegian and he had a thick accent to boot. Perhaps I should take the boys home for a few weeks. Tertius is no help, incidentally. He thinks I'm just fussing. But there IS something odd about the boy and it's not the same kind of odd as we've grown accustomed to in Mycroft.

Oh, the tests! Puh! I either have another child prodigy at my hands, or an utter dunderhead who cannot hope to achieve more in life than learning to tie his own shoelaces. OBVIOUSLY it isn't the latter, but as I said, my Norwegian didn't suffice to tell Dr Borg that.

I'm not sure I can cope with another Mycroft! He did so brilliantly the first time around that the doc insisted on a second go. The second time, however, he seemed not to understand a word of what I asked of him and instead drew a strange picture of a beach hut, a unicorn and a flying saucer. Then he took off his left shoe and started playing with his toes. I could read in Dr Borg's eyes what he was thinking, but for goodness' sake! Only because he doesn't allow himself to be reduced to a mere lab rat doesn't make him the village idiot! I told the doctor that in no uncertain terms, but again he pretended not to understand me, or perhaps he really didn't. And I just don't know what I'm supposed to do!

Gimsøy, April 7th 1980

I don't know how he did it but Mikey found out about Sherlock's IQ test results and keeps on tormenting the poor kid endlessly with it. Which isn't only cruel but also completely pointless, seeing that he's got only about ten or so points less than Mike who scored over 200 (at 200 the shrink's scale was at an end). Which means that Sherlock scored 40 points more than Albert Einstein, he is sixty points above the score at which people get certified as geniuses, ninety points above average intelligence. For all intents and purposes, he is a prodigy – but will his brother acknowledge any of these facts? Or, come to that, will the child listen to me when I try to tell him that he is NOT a 'moron', as Mike insists?

Gimsøy, December 22nd 1980

Gil Braithwaite's wife and kids are here for a 'holiday'. Who on earth voluntarily visits this godforsaken place is beyond me, and in winter, too! Betty Braithwaite got no less than six children, apparently Gil makes one every time he goes home, but believe you me, the six of them together are less exhausting than a single one of my own!

Maybe it's because three of them are girls. I often wonder how it'd be to have a girl. Would a girl demand a chemistry set, or a book on the War of the Spanish Succession? Would a girl be as obstinate and troublesome as my little Sherlock? A girl would allow her mummy to embrace her or give her a goodnight kiss, I'm sure! But Gil and Betty's boys aren't like mine either, not a bit. They're nothing if not polite, well-behaved and friendly. No smart alecks, no brawling, no histrionic fits at all! Of course, both Mikey and Sherlock flatly refused having anything to do with them. And I WILL admit that, to me, they seemed to be a bit slow. But I suppose that in fact they aren't, that they're exactly how children of that age are supposed to be. It's my own sweet darlings who are precocious, that's it. But I'm the first to admit that I was secretly pleased how very much they outshone kids twice their age.

Gimsøy, March 8th 1981

The Admiral has died and we all will go to England for the funeral. I cannot really fathom how Tertius truly feels. He and his father were never close, yet he's naturally upset. I simply cannot figure how much, whether he's coping quite well or just suppressing his emotions.

Same goes for Mikey. He worshipped his grandfather, yet his death seems to leave him perfectly unmoved. At first I thought he didn't entirely comprehend the concept of death, but little did I know my brilliant little boy. Of course he does comprehend it. He straightaway refused any of the usual comforts as well, like 'Grandpa is in heaven' and the like. Turns out our not yet ten-year-old boy is a fully-fledged atheist. Of course he is. And that with his other grandfather being a vicar!

Chipping Sedford, March 12th 1981

The funeral went quite well. I don't think I ever attended one without a single tear shed by anybody, but that was the Admiral for you. He didn't exactly inspire attachment.

Oh, and the opening of the will! Fancy that, old Sheldon actually cut Tertius out of the will, in a manner of speaking. Even though it's quite sweet, when you think about it. He left the house and grounds to Mycroft and Sherlock because they loved it so much, with Tertius acting as a steward for them until Mike is twenty-five. He also left them a good deal of money, and even more money to Tertius. No matter how you look at it, we're rich, and I must say I don't know how I feel about that. Maybe it's only because I never had much money. Enough, always, but never too much. Or maybe in my heart of hearts I believe that money corrupts people. Or perhaps I feel overwhelmed by the responsibility of having to deal with such a fortune. One ought to give it all away to charity, right? But is that fair to the boys?

Gimsøy, June 21st 1981

We'll be moving back to England, hooray!

With one month of midnight sun behind us and the complimentary constant lack of sleep, with the Admiral's fortune backing us and the necessity to be sending Mikey to school next year, Tertius finally braced himself to fold in.

Oh, I am so happy!

And just so I will never ever forget this: Having heard of our 'windfall' as she deigns to call it, I got a phone call from Rosalie. Rosalie, who used to tell me that the postage for sending a letter abroad was too expensive to write to me, actually picked up the phone and called me in Norway! At first I thought something must have happened to either Mummy or Daddy, but they're alright. No, Rosalie had ulterior motives – now that we've come into 'some money' she tried talking me into giving it all to Harold to invest for us. Seeing that neither of us 'has any clue how to handle money'. Why, it's true, but it galled me the way she was going on and I swear here and now that I'll rather give it all away than allow Harold to get his grubby hands on it!

Chipping Sedford, August 24th 1981

Back at last and residing in ludicrous splendour. Fancy that the Admiral did not possess a single normal dish, or cup, or glass. For our first meals we dined on finest china using silver cutlery. Do I need to mention that Sherlock broke (on purpose!) a tea pot that was crafted by Josiah Wedgwood himself? When I told him off, he grinned at me and said I must not do so because technically, half of the tea pot is his and the other half belongs to Mike, and since they could not agree on it, now each can have his own half and do as he pleases.

Talking of him – Mike insisted to be sent to Morecombe College already. He's too young, but had already informed himself that he merely needs to sit the entrance exam and we all knew he'd pass in a panache, didn't we? So he'll be off next week and boy, is he happy about it!

Why Morecombe and not Eton, with him wanting to go there ever since he could talk? Because it is the Admiral's (and Tertius') alma mater, and he's still in his Navy phase. He'll see what he's got himself into, that's one thing for sure. I don't know about Eton, but Tertius tells me that Morecombe is nothing if not keen on physical training – and Mikey is too lazy for anything. What wouldn't I give to see his first PE lesson!

His soon departure has led to increasing friction with Sherlock, don't ask me why. It's not as if those two got along well, but now it seems that Sherlock has suddenly developed abandonment issues or something. He is furious all the time, picks his food (I'm used to that, but now he has started flicking it across the table at his brother!), never closes a door if he can slam it, smashes valuable china (note to myself: need to buy my own crockery), rows and brawls with Mycroft at every possibility he gets and throws one tantrum after the next.


	2. At Home At Arrowhead

**At Home At Arrowhead**

Matty Holmes' Diary  


 _Chipping Sedford, October 6th 1981_

Why are all my children so desperate to leave me?!

Mikey gone off to Morecombe College one year early, and Sherlock nagging me to be sent away to boarding school as well a.s.a.p! What did I do wrong, eh? I gave them all my love and care and patience, and what do I get in return?!

I know it is wrong to feel this way, I know, I KNOW! But I can't help it!

I told Sherlock (in a cruel streak, I guess) that he can go if he wants to, but Redbeard can't go with him, and without him at home to look after the dog, we might be forced to give it away. So that's HIS dearest wish taken care of, and two years of therapy possibly to get over the shock. What kind of mother am I?!

 _Chipping Sedford, October 20th 1981_

Daddy has died and my heart is broken. The funeral will be on Thursday, and for once in my life I am glad that Rosie is such a bossy busybody who insists on organising it all on her own, because truly, I could not do it. Poor Mummy! She's been married to Daddy for 49 years after all, and for all I can say, they've been as happy together as any couple could possibly be.

 _Chipping Sedford, December 9th 1981_

Yesterday John Lennon was shot. I don't know why, but I'm feeling kind of numb.

 _Chipping Sedford, December 26th 1981_

Christmas was actually quite nice this year. Who'd have figured? Certainly not me (not I, I should say, as Mike corrects me constantly). But Mike is back from school for the holidays and the experience of actually being around other children has mellowed him a lot, in particular regarding his esteem for his little brother; he even grudgingly admitted that Sherlock may not be quite as stupid as he always thought.

Everybody else though is, in his learned opinion, and so is Morecombe College. His classes are 'laughable', especially his PE classes (just IMAGINE: his teacher actually demanded him to run 2 miles! And there's Rugby! An INCREDIBLY stupid, not to mention VIOLENT sport, how can anybody subject poor innocent children to such harassment? And tennis – the unfortunate child has bruises all over because his opponents shoot the balls right at him! It should be forbidden by law! – Oh my poor Mikey – he's all injured innocence, and not even his parents manage to actually feel sorry for him!). All the other students are completely beneath him, so are the teachers, and he no longer wants to become an admiral but has set his heart on becoming Prime Minister instead in order to outlaw all these outrageous miscarriages of justice. Need I mention that his father and I are constantly in danger of cracking with laughter?

 _Chipping Sedford, February 11th 1982_

The question of Sherlock's schooling can no longer be postponed, so I made an appointment at the one and only primary school in Appleton, met the headmaster Mr. Finch, looked around the school and discussed the curriculum – and am already convinced that it is going to be a disaster. Mike wrinkled his nose at Dragon School, then? I can only imagine what he'd make of THIS place!

Yes, opting out is chickening out, I KNOW. I may even have said similar things in the past but that was before I knew about the appalling standards of our state schools! Tertius suggested that I could home-school Sherlock as I did with Mikey, but I guess that's not really an option. Mikey at least listened to me, Sherlock doesn't, the only person he listens to in this respect is Mike himself.

So maybe we should cave in and grant him his wish and send him to boarding school, too?

 _Chipping Sedford, May 29th 1982_

With the upcoming records, it transpires that Mike is far too advanced for his classes and should skip another year, as the Headmaster informed us. Well, it was sort of obvious and he's got our blessings. My only concern is that his new classmates will be two years older than Mike and unlikely to accept him as a peer. He's not the most endearing of children at the best of times, I can only pray he will make some friends nevertheless!

On a similar note: we enrolled Sherlock in a Primary School for the Highly Talented. It's in Cornwall, which breaks my heart, but otherwise it seems the only way. He'll be around children his own age and similarly gifted, and unlike Mike he can actually be quite charming and sociable, so that should be no problem.

 _Chipping Sedford, September 3rd 1982_

Saying goodbye to my little boy yesterday may have been the single most sad thing I have ever done. Luckily – or not! – he didn't seem to feel likewise. He merely mourns for being unable to take Redbeard with him, and his only other complaint was the school uniform, short trousers and ties – not really his kind of thing. Otherwise he was a very happy little camper. Good for him.

Gosh, this place is far too big for two people. Not that it isn't far too big for three or four, but at least the boys love it. And I guess I should start cleaning it myself now that I have no more excuse not to.

 _Chipping Sedford, September 7th 1982_

Received a call from Sherlock's Matron who informed me quite uneasily that he refuses to eat. Calmed her down that this is quite normal with him. He eats when he wants to – in fact he can wolf down three servings if he's hungry – and doesn't if he doesn't feel like it. Ms. Barrymore didn't seem convinced, but alas, she'll get used to it. As I did.

 _Chipping Sedford, September 14th 1982_

Received a call from Sherlock's Headmaster Mr. Singh. Like the Matron, he is very concerned for my poor baby. Apparently, his participation in class is rather erratic. He's interested in some subjects and very eager – at other times, he appears to be rather 'catatonic', to quote Mr. Singh. Told him that this is not surprising at all.

 _Chipping Sedford, September 20th 1982_

Received another call from Mr. Singh. Sherlock has destroyed his violin by beating up another child with it. I am quite shocked. Though I guess I shouldn't be. As sweet as he can be, he was always quite – well, physical in his altercations with Mycroft. We should have taken that more seriously, but with Mike being five years older, it was never much of a problem before. What a feeble excuse, eh? Anyway, he refuses to excuse himself, and only laments the loss of the violin. Their idea of punishment is to exclude him from the classes he enjoys and PE for two weeks. I told Mr. Singh that I don't think it'll work, but since I have no better suggestion either, I reckon they'll have to try.

 _Chipping Sedford, September 23rd 1982_

TWO calls, one from the Matron and one from Mr. Singh. The latter informs me that Sherlock has started to steal from other students, not even for gain but merely to upset them, like nicking favourite books and hiding them in the library, or cuddly toys and throwing them in the incinerator. The Matron on the other hand let me know that to her knowledge, my poor child has eaten NOTHING in three days, and even before that, she reckons it was no more than four or five apples, three pieces of toast over the course of two weeks and a box of chocolates which – naturally – belonged to another student.

Tertius and I will travel to Cornwall tomorrow.

 _Chipping Sedford, September 25th 1982_

I am completely torn. It breaks my heart to see my poor baby in such a pitiable state. He's lost four pounds since leaving here, and he was too thin to begin with, and there is such a dejected look on his face, you'd think he was a traumatised war-orphan! He scarcely talked to us other than being angry that we didn't bring Redbeard (which WAS stupid, now that I think about it, but I thought a ten-hour-drive in the Saab wouldn't be nice for the dog either).

Mr. Singh says that a lot of children have difficulties settling in, but that he cannot ignore Sherlock's 'delinquency' either, and if he doesn't better himself, he'll have to expel him for a fortnight.

 _Chipping Sedford, September 30th 1982_

Had to drive to Cornwall for the second time in four days in order to fetch Sherlock, who got himself suspended for four weeks. It should have been only two, but he gave the Headmaster such lip that Mr. Singh saw himself obliged to double the sentence. Oh well, I can see his point, and what is more – I am actually quite happy to have my darling back at home, and so is he, clearly. This time, we were smart enough to take Redbeard and you should have seen the reunion! Heart-warming doesn't begin to cover it. Even Tertius and I got our share of being coddled, it's obvious he couldn't have been more pleased to see either of us.

It transpires that I do not know my own children very well. Sherlock, whom I had believed to be the more personable of my sons, HATES being around other children. Or perhaps, as Mr. Singh tells it, THEY hate being around him and let him feel it. Mycroft on the other hand, cold and aloof as he is, has some knack in fitting in if he has to. I am astonished, to say the least.

 _Chipping Sedford, October 24th 1982_

With the end of Sherlock's temporary expulsion drawing nearer, I cannot help it but see that we must not send him back at all. He has developed all kinds of symptoms which – without medical training – I cannot but diagnose as psychosomatic. Diarrhoea, vomiting without having eaten anything, of course: not eating, headaches, tremors and – bizarrely – a kind of limp. He actually drags his right leg, believe it or not.

 _Chipping Sedford, November 12th 1982_

How fortunate to have a fortune, so we can spend it on our children! Today I employed a very sympathetic young man – Mr. Carlton – in order to tutor my second-born. He can live in the little cottage on the estate. His credentials are excellent; he read biology and sociology at Cambridge, graduated with a double first class, and is just working on his dissertation. Also, he appears patient, well-mannered and truly nice.

 _Chipping Sedford, December 20th 1982_

Mr. Carlton handed in his notice with the words that Sherlock has no need of a tutor, but a handler. Ph!

 _Chipping Sedford, December 24th 1982_

Redbeard has become sick and I don't know where to find a vet who will work on Christmas Eve!

 _Chipping Sedford, December 25th 1982_

Crisis closely averted by packing man (well, child) and dog into the Saab and driving down to London. Dog is well again (he had swallowed a golf ball – heaven knows how, or where he got a golf ball from). Thank the Lord for non-Christian vets having their practise open over the holidays! Dr. Zhang may have single-handedly saved this family from the worst Christmas ever and the equanimity of my child.

 _Chipping Sedford, January 1st 1983_

Sherlock nearly set the house ablaze with fireworks of his own making. Note to self: Raise premium on fire-insurance.

 _Chipping Sedford, January 11th 1983_

Found another tutor for Sherlock, a trained teacher this time, Mrs. Maynard, who used to teach at Appleton comprehensive. Sherlock loathes her, but what the heck.

 _Chipping Sedford, January 13th 1983_

This could be the shortest employment ever, as Mrs. Maynard quit after just one day, telling me to my face that she thinks my son is certifiably insane. I slapped her for that remark, and no, I do not feel sorry!

 _Chipping Sedford, January 23rd 1983_

New tutor for Sherlock. Tertius and have a bet going how long he will last. He is called Mr. Goldstein, he is 72, and I can only pray that Sherlock doesn't bring his demise about. Other than that, he seems very qualified; used to teach at Harrow, speaks six languages, has a PhD in chemistry and a penchant for biology. Oh please, Lord, let us keep this one!

 _Chipping Sedford, February 27th 1983_

Mr. Goldstein is still here and Sherlock LOVES him. I wouldn't have thought it possible to be so happy about such a comparably small thing!

 _Chipping Sedford, April 18th 1983_

Mike has won a prize for the best essay on Greek moral philosophy, being the youngest entry by three years, incidentally. Pleased and proud as we are, neither his father nor I would have thought he had any personal moral philosophy. He sometimes seems the natural child of, oh I don't know, Ayn Rand and a member of the Manson family.

Sherlock and Mr. Goldstein still get along fine. Fingers crossed!

 _Chipping Sedford, July 4th 1983_

Mike is home for the holidays and does his possible best to alienate Mr. Goldstein in raging jealousy of the man being such a favourite with Sherlock. Tertius took him – Mike I mean – aside and had some very strict words with him. Knowing my dear husband, I imagine they were 'look here, chap, please behave for your mum's sake', but I appreciate the effort.

 _Chipping Sedford, July 15th 1983_

Raised Mr. Goldstein's salary by a thousand pounds, merely for putting up with Mike, AND sent him on holiday on our own expenses. Sherlock is pouting and takes it out on Mike, who, I must say, thoroughly deserves it.

 _Chipping Sedford, December 3rd 1983_

Poor Mr. Goldstein has had a stroke! The good news: my son can impossibly be blamed for causing it, but still! Sherlock is inconsolable and has already begun composing a get-well-soon-song on his violin for him, the dear child.

Oh, I hope he recovers and comes back, but what are the odds with a guy who's already 73?

 _Chipping Sedford, February 27th 1984_

I'll light a candle next time I'll go to church. Today Mr. Goldstein returned, and he is as hale and healthy as can be expected and appeared quite touched by Sherlock's hearty welcome. As am I.

 _Chipping Sedford, August 13th 1984_

House invaded by a bunch of upper-class brats. Am I allowed to call them that? Seeing that by some accident – at least on my part – we've become upper-class as well? If Mikey EVER becomes like one of them, I might give him the first spanking of his life!

Where to start, really? There is Kingsley Marchmont (who would call a child like that?!), the proverbial devil's son (should have called him Damian!), 14 years old, blond, angelic-looking and so arrogant that it makes Mike look almost humble. Then there's Timothy Jones-Brinkley, who must be one of the most handsome boys I've ever seen and damn him if he doesn't know it. It's obnoxious how vain and self-satisfied this child is even if he looks like the kid in Death in Venice. And there's The Honourable Julius Watkins, second son of Lord Alexander Watkins of Treasury fame, who by default is the nicest of the lot, and whose greatest fault is his constant moaning because there is no 'proper' golf course around.

So these are my son's best friends? Should I consider myself lucky that he has any, or impress on him how repellent I find the company he keeps?!

 _Chipping Sedford, August 25th 1984_

Bar visits from Rosie, I've never been happier to see people leave than Mike's mates. How they tormented poor Sherlock! Anything I ever assumed about bullying in public schools must be true!

Fortunately he's got a thick skin, I'll give him that. Never did I see a six-year-old more stoic (that is until he'd crack and try to beat the living daylights out of Kingsley Marchmont, that insufferable little git, who wasn't above beating back a child seven years younger than him!).

The Foul Four went on to haunt the Watkinses until school starts again, so I had to say goodbye to Mike this morning already; he'll not come home before Christmas. I wish I could delude myself into believing that he merely acted so coolly because his pals were watching.

 _Chipping Sedford, September 2nd 1984_

Tragedy has struck. Mr. Goldstein has died peacefully in his sleep. It was poor Sherlock who found him when he didn't show up this morning and while he did not understand what had happened and that he'd just tumbled over a corpse (count your blessings, Matilda, count your blessings!), he is inconsolable at the prospect of Mr. Goldstein never coming back. As am I.

 _Chipping Sedford, September 6th 1984_

The funeral of Mr. Goldstein was very moving. Loads and loads of his former pupils were there and there were no less than eight eulogies, one by the Minister of Agriculture himself and one by that actor playing Macbeth in the BBC miniseries last year, I can never remember his name. As if the event in itself wasn't touching enough, the latter had me in tears all the way through.

My poor little Sherlock is devastated and I cannot think of anything to comfort him. Like Mikey, he doesn't believe in any kind of afterlife (where do these children get it from?! My father was a sodding priest after all!) and being told that Mr. Goldstein led a full and happy and comparably long life does nothing for him either, of course. One needs to be much older and world-weary to be comforted by the fact that it could have come worse.

 _Chipping Sedford, September 19th 1984_

Employed and lost two tutors in one week, one of them had the almighty gall to hit my poor boy. Not even slap him, but hit him with a book over the head! Strangely, it wasn't Sherlock who told me that but Mr. Briggs himself when handing in his notice. I am out of myself and so is Tertius, only Sherlock doesn't seem to care. Which makes me – perhaps unfairly – quite suspicious of Mikey's way of teaching him in the past.

 _Chipping Sedford, November 15th 1984_

I will stop counting, as I keep losing track anyway. How many tutors did I employ in the last two years? It doesn't even make sense for them to make themselves at home in the cottage. I LONG for another Mr. Goldstein!

 _Chipping Sedford, December 22nd 1984_

Mike is back from school and has grown three inches since I last saw him. Also, he's hit puberty. You can scarcely see his face for all the pimples, and he hasn't accustomed to his longer limps so he's all knees and elbows and gangly moves.

Naturally, Sherlock won't stop making fun of him. I told him off, to no avail, and Mike later locked him up in a big chest in one of the guestrooms. He was stuck in there for three hours before I figured out he was missing and forced Mike to tell me where he is!


	3. The Strong Box, The Torch & The Wardrobe

**THE STRONG BOX, THE TORCH AND THE WARDROBE**

"Sherlock Holmes, if you don't get out of there _at once_ , I'm coming in!"

"Go away, Mycroft!"

Redbeard, Sherlock's faithful old dog, watched the scene attentively and snarled under his breath.

"I'll be counting to three!"

"Can you do that?"

Mycroft once more hammered his fist against the wardrobe door in exasperation, then took a deep breath and cried, "One!"

"Good start, that," piped up his little brother on the inside of the wardrobe, but being him, made no sign of caving in. Redbeard edged a little closer and eyed Mycroft suspiciously.

"Two!"

"Just get lost, will you?"

Funny enough, the boy sounded just as vexed as Mycroft felt, which gave the latter no little pleasure. He was supposed to look after the nuisance because their parents had gone to the theatre and not love nor money could buy a babysitter for the little bugger, so consequently, it had been one of the worst evenings of Mycroft's entire _life_. His brother was nothing if not a pain in the back at the best of times, but tonight, he had taken things up a notch yet.

"Three!"

"Don't you touch the sodding door, Mycroft, I'm warning you!"

"You! Warning _me!_ Oh, you cheeky little sod!"

He was so out of himself, he had some difficulties trying to force the lock open by means of a propelling pencil – he'd have used the screwdriver that their mother kept in one of the kitchen drawers for minor emergencies, but hadn't found the bloody thing – and all the while Sherlock on the inside kept on uttering absurd threats and Redbeard butted in, trying to push him aside.

"What do you even think you're _doing_ there, eh?! You've got to come out of there eventually –"

"We shall see about that, shall we?"

"And if you'll allow _me_ giving you a fair warning, you'll better be out of there _before_ Mummy comes back! It's bad enough as it is!"

Sherlock gave no answer, but that didn't matter because Mycroft had finally succeeded with the stupid lock and yanked the door open. He gaped at what he was seeing there. Instead of fleeing into the wardrobe to simply hide from shame and play dead, Sherlock had removed two of the shelves and put them aside, and standing on a stool with a torch light scotch-taped to his head, was employing the missing screwdriver to disassemble the backside of the wardrobe and some other integral parts of the structure. He didn't even interrupt his labours when the light from the hallway fell in, but gnarled between gritted teeth that Mycroft should 'better close the door and _now!_ '

Mycroft was too perplexed to wonder, and on a second look, he spotted something even worse – the top, too high for Sherlock to reach even on his stool, had come loose and was perilously close to dropping down on the kid, who still kept on unscrewing the back panel as if nothing had happened. The older boy snatched his brother's collar and jerked him out only a second before the heavy oak top came crashing down, and not five seconds later, the entire wardrobe, approximately four hundred years old, collapsed accompanied by furious barks from Redbeard.

Sherlock wasn't fazed by the wreckage, nor grateful for the rescue, but stared hard at the wall behind and made a very disappointed face. "There's nothing there," he muttered with a pout.

"What did you think would be there?!" shouted Mycroft, trying to regain his composure but really just craving to throttle the obstinate child. That wardrobe must have been a priceless antique, and _he_ would be the one held responsible for its destruction!

"A passage," replied Sherlock smugly and shrugged his shoulders. "I guess my calculations weren't quite as exact as I'd thought they'd be."

"Calculations? _Calculations!_ Oh, you idiotic little smartass, your _calculations!_ " He grabbed Sherlock's arm and dragged him away. "What sort of passage did you mean to find there? The way to Narnia or what!"

"Don't be silly. Obviously, there must be a priest-hole in the house and I had figured out that it must be through the wardrobe, that's all."

The boy was speaking rather calmly, which was at odds with the fierce resistance he put up to his older brother's rough manhandling of him trying to get him upstairs and into his bed, a task even more difficult because Sherlock's dog tried to protect his master by biting the assailant, a thankfully fruitless pursuit because Redbeard had long lost his last tooth.

Their parents were due any minute now and if Sherlock wasn't _at least_ locked up in his room by then... Somehow – Mycroft couldn't yet say how, but _somehow_ he'd be blamed for everything that had gone wrong tonight, he was certain of so much. Being the older one, he was _always_ the one who got the blame. In the hallway lay a ruined antique, Mr Holmes' strong box had been broken into with their mother's jewellery all over the place, a window had been smashed and a marble table top scratched (how that was even possible, Mycroft dared not thinking about), yet somehow the worst of it all seemed to him in this moment that he had promised their mother that he'd see to Sherlock going to bed by eight o'clock and now it was past eleven.

Incidentally, the child had no intention to go to his room now either. Instead he grabbed at every solid-looking object (and the not so solid ones too, unfortunately) on the way, the banister railings (each one individually), door knobs, side tables (speaking of not-very-solid objects and destruction), he even ripped a telephone cable out of the wall.

"Let go, damn it! Mummy will be so cross with you!"

"Yeah, but with you she'll be even crosser! Weren't you supposed to look after me?"

That was it. He'd had it. He slapped the child and pulled his hair and very successfully so one might add, for Sherlock let go of his latest sheet anchor. For a split second, Mycroft believed himself to be the winner of this little struggle, but then Sherlock started kicking and boxing him in return. He felt like a rugby player and puffed like a steam engine when he had finally managed his Herculean task and had thrown the kid onto his bed and jumped right after him to make sure he stayed where he was.

"Get off me!" Sherlock protested with a furious wail. "You're crushing me, you fat walrus!"

He still had the torch plastered to his head, and only now Mycroft realised he hadn't used scotch- but gaffer tape for this. Smartboy clearly hadn't taken the long view. His older brother put his tongue in his cheek, shrugged, and thought that he really shouldn't deny himself the pleasure. Then he ripped off torch and tape with one swift move, pulling out swatches of dark, curly hair and abrasing the skin, and making the child scream out loud. Served the little bugger right.

"You are so stupid, Sherlock, language fails me to describe how incredibly _stupid_ you are!" the older brother snarled, staring a little aghast at the masses of dark hair still glued to the tape. "It's offensive, really! It's offensive to have a close relative being such a stupid little arse!"

"Deal with it! I've got to deal with having a pompous twit of a brother that looks like a whale, too!"

Mycroft raised his hand. "Want another?!" His weight was a very touchy subject with him. Sherlock knew that just as well, and changed his tactics in their ongoing struggle. He let go of Mycroft's wrists and pinched his midriff bulges instead, making good use of his fingernails.

"My, you've really put on weight again, haven't you!" he mocked with relish, and perfectly unconcerned by the fact that he didn't stand a chance. "Also, I'm _not stupid!_ "

"I beg to differ!"

"Fatty!"

"You never ever plan ahead, Sherlock, and that's what's called 'stupidity', so face it, you _are_ stupid. You plaster your hair with glue not thinking that it must come off again, you dismantle something not thinking ahead that it'll come down on you next. That's why you're such a loser at chess, too!"

"I beat _you_ only the day before yesterday!"

"Only because you cheated!"

"I did not!"

Oh yes, he must have had, only that Mycroft couldn't prove it. Otherwise he could impossibly have beaten a thirteen-year-old, it just wasn't _possible_. Sitting on the skinny boy, Mycroft just snatched his hands and pinned them sideways, and they remained like this for a few minutes; the older brother needed to recover his breath, the younger looked like suffocating, too, but Mycroft didn't doubt that this was rather for frustration than actual breathing constraints. After all, he wasn't _that_ fat.

He wondered, a tad defeatist, what he should do next. As soon as he'd let go of the child, he'd be out of his bed once more, surely, and would continue to wreak havoc. But he couldn't keep on sitting on top of him either. Should he tie the kid up? What would their parents think of _that_ measure, contrasted to the possible hazards of letting him loose? Luckily – or not – he needn't worry any longer, because he heard a loud yell from downstairs, indicating Mr and Mrs Holmes had just returned home and discovered the wrecked wardrobe in the hallway.

"Mycroft Ebenezer Scott Holmes, come down here this instant!"

He groaned and let go of his brother. "Now what, silly? Don't you want to join me?"

"Didn't hear Mummy calling for _me_ ," Sherlock replied snidely and folded his arms across his chest.

"Suit yourself," Mycroft sighed, braced himself and trotted downstairs. His parents had not even taken their coats off, they were just staring at the demolition, in Mr Holmes' case helpless while Mrs Holmes' cheeks were paper-white. Never a good sign, he knew.

"What on earth..." gasped his father when spotting him on the stairs, but clearly couldn't go on.

"Mycroft, dear – what _is_ this?" asked his mother in a constrained voice. She was on the brink of exploding, so much was certain, and Mycroft couldn't blame her. And she hadn't yet seen her husband's study yet!

"Sherlock was looking for a priest-hole," he replied matter-of-factly. "And before you start aggravating yourself because of _this_ , I suggest you take a look at Daddy's safe."

"The... The safe?" gasped Mr Holmes and instantly rushed upstairs.

Mrs Holmes pursed her lips. "I don't suppose that we got burgled, no?"

"Not by ordinary burglars, if that's what you mean."

"Mind your attitude, young man!"

He couldn't but scowl at her. "Look, it's not as if _I_ had done any of this! The little scumbag –"

"Mycroft!"

"What! _He_ takes down the house, and yet you're giving _me_ the lecture about it!"

"Because _you_ were supposed to look after him! If you'd sent him to bed like I told you –"

"I did! I did send him to bed, but what do you suggest I should have done to make him stay there?! Camp out in the hallway in front of his door?!"

"That would have been _one_ possibility."

"I had to study for my history class!"

Mrs Holmes gave a dry laugh. "Don't be ridiculous, darling."

Truth was that young Mycroft, after skipping two years of schooling already was even now at the head of all of his classes by a wide margin, and was as much in need of preparing for a test as he was in need of sprouting a pair of antlers.

"You could have locked him up, too. Usually works for me," she grimed, omitting to mention that her youngest had more than once climbed out of his window for her efforts.

"Oh, please, Mummy, give me credit for thinking of that myself. I don't know how he did it, but he got out regardless."

"You left the key in the keyhole, didn't you? Basic mistake. I guess I should have warned you. He just shoves a piece of paper underneath the door, pushes out the key from the inside and hauls it in with the paper then."

Mycroft opened and shut his mouth, speechless.

Mrs. Holmes shrugged. "Got that one from Wodehouse, I'm afraid. It's my own fault; I thought it was a safer bedtime lecture than his usual choices."

"Well, it seems a little late now. Both for regrets, and your friendly pointers," Mycroft said tersely. In his head, he calculated how long he'd have to endure his sibling's antics before he was allowed returning to school. He counted the days, really.

Mrs Holmes, angry as she was, gave him a strained little smile and dismissed him. "We'll talk about it tomorrow, Mycroft," she said and followed him upstairs to see after her youngest. On the way she registered the chaos, the broken little tables and vases, scratch marks on the wallpaper, the broken telephone on the landing, but entering her youngest's bedroom, the picture could hardly have been more peaceful. Sherlock was sitting on his bed, pouring over a heavy, leather-bound book, not even looking up when she entered. Redbeard was curled up at the foot of the bed.

"You broke into Daddy's safe, sweetheart?" she asked, straining to sound casual but not succeeding much.

He turned a page and kept on reading. "I didn't break into it; I simply opened it, that's different."

"How could you open it?"

"Easily. The combination was obvious. 1 – 8 – 3 – 0. The year in which _Principles of Geology_ was first published."

Mrs Holmes frowned. The idea was simple enough, but how the boy should have guessed at this particular tome of all books was still beyond her. He warily explained that, as he had found out standing on a chair in front of the safe in order to imitate his father's approximate height, and looking at the bookshelf from there, he had been on eye-level with Mr Holmes's entire collection of and on Charles Lyell, and seeing that the _Principles_ were that man's opus magnum, it had been abundantly clear.

"Very clever, darling."

"Elementary, Mummy."

"And why did you do it in the first place?"

"I knew that Daddy keeps all the keys in there and I needed the one for the hallway wardrobe," he explained with the same bored expression, and volunteered the story of the wardrobe as well.

"And it would have been alright," he ended with an annoyed little sigh, "if it hadn't been for Mycroft. The statics of the thing were in no danger as long as the door was closed to give it stability. That's why I had it locked from the inside –"

"How did you do that, by the way?"

"With pincers, of course."

"Oh, yes, of course."

He narrowed his eyes and examined her, sensing that she was somehow making fun of him, but she kept her face straight and he gave up. He was pretty good in reading clues such as the row of Lyell books indicating the safe combination, but hardly ever succeeded in reading any kind of emotion in other people's expression, with the exception of anger. He came to see that particular expression too often to miss it.

"Your father is quite upset, darling, because of the wardrobe. And the safe."

"Hmm."

"This _would_ be the opportune moment for you to say you're sorry, Sherlock! It's the least you can do."

"I'm sorry," he muttered automatically, incensing her even more.

"Don't say it if you don't mean it!"

"That's why I didn't say it at first."

Like her older son before her, Mrs Holmes seriously struggled with the impulse to strangle the stubborn child, prevailed, inwardly counted to ten and forced herself to smile. "I suggest you stay in bed now and don't make any more trouble for tonight, hm?"

He nodded reluctantly and only now, she saw the red streaks on his temples, and the unmistakable imprints of a much bigger hand on his cheek.

She gently stroke over the bruises and asked, "What is this, Sherlock? What happened there?"

"Nothing."

"But..."

"The tape wouldn't come off."

She knew that he was lying; the traces of his older brother's hand were right there on his pale face, yet he looked at her so frank and sanguine as if he were saying nothing but the truth. She bent down to kiss him on the forehead. "Good night, darling. Sleep tight."

"I'm not tired yet."

She loudly exhaled. "You know, I could not care less right now, Sherlock. Keep on reading, then, if you like, but know that if you put _one_ foot out of this bed again before tomorrow morning, you _will_ be really sorry, I promise."

"Hmm."

He had already returned to the heavy book on his knees. Less seasoned mothers than Mrs Holmes might have taken that as a sign of obstinacy, but she knew him well enough that for him, the conversation was simply over and his book engrossing him so much more than anything his mother could tell him.

"Good night, darling," she repeated once more as she left the room.

He didn't look up, but she saw him smile. "Good night, Mummy."


End file.
